“What? Um, no.”
“Good. Bacon is in the microwave and I’m about to put the eggs on. We have about half an hour, then we meet them down at the docks.”
“Okay, sounds good,” Vanessa said.
He stood and walked around to the oven, tested his fry pan and poured the egg mixture into it, then added chopped onions, peppers, mushrooms and tomato.
“So, you are a cook,” she said.
He turned to her. “And you might pop that bread in the toaster, if you like.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
“Ah, such a reply is necessary only on a boat!” he teased.
Vanessa popped the toast into the toaster. As she did so, she had the strange sensation that something cold passed behind her.
And Sean was looking in that direction, frowning.
“Is there a draft in the house?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A ghost—so I’ve been told.”
Vanessa smiled. “Really?”
“It’s actually a very old place, you know. But I think there was a structure here before, long, long ago, when the pirates were at their heyday. Real butter? Or the fake spray stuff?”
“What?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Real butter.”
“In the refrigerator. I heard it’s not really that bad for you unless you consume the whole stick.”
“All things in moderation, so they say.”
He added cheese to the omelets while she got the butter and spread it on the toast. There was orange juice in the refrigerator, and she poured a glass for each of them. He directed her to the microwave as he flipped the omelet, slid it onto a plate and separated it to slide half onto a second plate. They set it all on the counter and took their seats again.
“Do you have a copy of your original script with you?” he asked her. “The script you wrote for the movie.”
“Sure. It’s still in my computer,” she told him.
“Can you give me a rundown?”
“We started from Key West, with three couples meeting up to take a trip out to Haunt Island. The usual college-age crew—Jay was hoping to reel in the seventeen-to twenty-one-year-old crowd. There was the good girl, the one you liked, the nerd…you know, the usual slasher cast. We had permits, of course, and filmed them getting together at the dock. They went diving at Pirate Cut, and they made fun of the story of Dona Isabella, and drew up silly pictures of Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass. Then they did this ridiculous thing, like a game of Bloody Mary, but they called up Mad Miller. The first death occurs when one of the kids sees a woman floating in the water and goes to help her, but when he turns her over, her face is skeletal and eaten away. When he shrieks and tries to get away, the sea ghost of Mad Miller drags him down, cutting him up in the water. We’re talking true teen-slasher flick,” she said, grimacing apologetically.
“I understand someone trying to break in—and make a living,” Sean said. “Many a director has cut his teeth on a slasher flick, and some have made very respectable livings on that alone.” He seemed thoughtful as he munched on his toast. “Go on.”
“Well, the rest on board are terrified, of course, and they try to perform a ritual that will let the poor murdered Dona Isabella rest—and send Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass to hell. One by one they end up dead as the boat limps toward the closest land—Haunt Island. Of course, the heroine, Georgia Dare, is something of a scholar and she discovers that Haunt Island was where everyone was massacred. In the script, Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass come after them, but Georgia and her boyfriend—Travis, of course—find a way to raise the massacred dead, and they come to life and destroy Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass, and then sink back into the sand. Simple, basic—some history, some ridiculous witchery, even if I did write it myself—good, gory teen fare.”
“What schedule did you follow filming?” he asked.
“I have that in my notebook, too. Oddly enough, most of the scenes were in order, and that was because we were so cost-conscious that we didn’t want to pay actors when we didn’t need them,” Vanessa explained. “Obviously, we filmed the scenes at Pirate Cut first, and then we filmed at a few of the reefs up by Key Largo, and then made our way over to South Bimini and finally Haunt Island. When Carlos and Georgia left on the night she was killed, they were supposedly heading straight for Miami.”
“And you don’t believe that Carlos Roca was a brilliant psychopath, pretending to be a great guy and savoring all the possibilities when Georgia went nuts and wanted to go home?” Sean asked.
“No. If he were that good an actor, he would have been in front of the camera, would have been there for years, and garnered a few Oscars,” Vanessa said with certainty. “But here’s the thing, of course—he’s gone. He can’t defend himself. I don’t know what I really even think that we can get out of this, but Carlos is another reason I’d so desperately love to find the truth. He might be a victim, too, and stand accused for this in the memory of his family and loved ones. It isn’t right.”
“We may do this and wind up with nothing more than an interesting documentary that merely gives rise to more questions,” Sean warned.
“It’s more than anyone else is doing right now,” she said.
“True. But, objectively, I can’t blame the Coast Guard, the Bahamian police, the FBI or any other law-enforcement agency. They’ve hit a brick wall. It’s impossible to drain the ocean—by today’s technology, at any rate. I’m sure that all over the Southeastern United States and at Caribbean ports, people are still on the lookout for the boat.”
“Right—and how hard do you think they’re looking now? People forget, and they move on. Other crimes happen. It’s sad, but true,” Vanessa said. “And by the way, you do make an excellent omelet.”
He grinned. “Yep, I do dishes well, too. It’s only the laundry thing that escaped me. But how about you clean up for me, I’ll get David on the phone, gather some supplies and meet you down at the dock. We’ll get your buddy Jay out there as well today, and I’ll interview both of you while we’re on the Conch Fritter.”
“I’m great at dishes,” she assured him.
He set his in the sink. He carefully kept his distance from her. He wanted the day to be productive. At this moment, touching her would be counterproductive.
It was a beautiful day. Calm seas, bright sun, cool air.
Jay was called upon to act as cameraman, though David and Sean set up the shot. They spoke about beginning their documentary. They were both excellent speakers, and it was a really good and casual segment, explaining that they were going to follow the legend and speaking about the events that had occurred on the recent film shoot. They talked about the fact that Vanessa was Katie’s friend and had come to them, and how they were they hoping to shed some light on the mystery.
Sean then repositioned himself and the camera so that he in turn could interview Jay about the film. Sean explained to David where he would want sea charts and other visual aids edited in, and they all seemed to be getting along quite well.
Katie had come on board with David, so there were five of them out. When they were ready to go into the water, Katie determined that she was just going to lie in the sun—she was tired. It was a busy time at O’Hara’s, and she was trying to make sure that Clarinda would be ready to take over for her when they set out through the Bermuda Triangle for the Bahamas.
On film again, Sean explained that they were looking for good footage of the “bones,” or the wreck field of the Santa Geneva. Over the years, with storms and currents, wreckage could move for miles. The initial sinking or breakup of a ship could begin the process, and time could keep it going into eternity. The site was fairly shallow, and it was popular with divers; you would think it had been picked clean by salvage divers in the eighteenth century, and yet still more relics had been found in the present, including the mermaid pendant Vanessa had discovered.
Jay paired up with David, and Vanessa naturally paired up with Sean.
It was cool in the water, but Vanessa’s skin was still enough for her. Sean and the other men also opted for skins.
Vanessa was thrilled that the sea was clear that day and the visibility was amazing. She hovered with Sean just below the surface, trying to capture the enormity of the spread of the wreck over the years, and the size and shape of the ship itself. Overlays could be edited in that would describe the Santa Geneva when she was afloat—and how she had been blasted by the pirate ship and came to sink and break up, forced onto the reef now known as Pirate Cut.
The ship had sunk north to south, and it was actually from a position of about five feet below the surface that Vanessa discovered she was getting the best long shot of the bones of the ship. It was amazing to see the shape and tragically disjointed outline of what had once been a regal and majestic sailing ship. She moved slowly and smoothly over the bones of the wreckage, keeping a straight sweep of the site, and then panning in slowly to show what divers saw as they got closer. If it wasn’t known that a great ship had gone down, a diver might have explored the wreckage for a long time without knowing what it was when he got too close.
She adjusted the zoom, and it was then that she saw something from the periphery of her eyes. The figurehead.
A chilling sensation burned through her as cold and hot as dry ice.
She drew the camera away and looked down at the site. The Santa Geneva seemed settled, at peace, in her sunken graveyard.
How many had died in this area? The pirates had given the ship a vicious cannon salvo; they had boarded to kill and maim with cutlasses and pistols, and kidnapped Dona Isabella for the ransom she would bring. Those who had fought, who had perished in the water, were here somewhere, now long gone, flesh eaten, bones bleached and disarticulated, food for the creatures of the sea. Ghosts and memories were all that remained.
Vanessa looked through the lens again.
And there she was, hazy at first, seeming to look up from jagged coral and sand, the myriad of fish in their amazing colors—and the remains of the deck of the Santa Geneva far below.
